


No Ailment Worse

by MadameFolie



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fantasizing, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 13:03:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4877923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameFolie/pseuds/MadameFolie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the kinkmeme. Norway doesn't miss him, not really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Ailment Worse

Flight delays and heavy runway traffic add nearly six hours to Norway’s trip. By the time he at last arrives in Zurich, he is irritable, hungry, and exhausted. And the hotel room –his only respite from the conference turmoil— is not much to take comfort in. Everything here is forged by man: either glass or steel, save for the towels and bedding. Norway does not care a great deal for it. The building houses no hearth, no guardian spirits to protect those far from their homes. It is sanitary and silent. It's...it's cold. In more ways than one. And he wants to sleep. But his presentation is the first tomorrow morning and he has not looked over his notes in some time.  
  
  
Norway retrieves one of the spare blankets from the closet and carries his laptop to the bed. Even the thin hotel coverlet ought to be better insulation than his jeans alone; his focus should come easier if he is comfortable. But his hands slow and still at the keyboard, fingers curling instinctively against the plastic as sleep threatens to overtake him. He takes the blanket still folded beside him and wraps it about his shoulders. It may be worth his while to make coffee. If he were home, he would likely be on the sofa, papers in hand and a drink at the ready. He would probably be in his warm socks. Perhaps in one of his good sweaters, the kind too thick to fold into his suitcase. The coffee, if he were to still to want it then, would be delicious.  
  
  
Denmark probably would have invited himself over. He imagines leaning back against Denmark’s broad chest, tucked between his legs. Norway draws the blanket tighter around himself. Denmark’s arms would be wrapped about him, hands folded atop his chest. It would be uncomfortable— the bones of Denmark’s wrists would dig into the soft flesh of the undersides of his upper arms. Inevitably, Denmark would distract him: He would press one kiss too many to Norway’s neck to resist the temptation to touch. He’d let his hands press flat against Norway’s stomach. Slip down the length of his body and up beneath his clothes. Norway might ask him just what he thinks he is doing. But Denmark’s hands are large and warm. They would not be unwelcome now, as cold as he is.  
  
  
It is a fantasy and so Norway is free to imagine what he pleases. The Denmark that he knows could not keep his mouth shut. The Denmark in his mind’s eye and his body’s memory says little, allowing those hands to do the speaking instead. His initial touches would he unsteady. Unsure. He’d stroke the side of a pectoral in silence, waiting. Watching. Gauging Norway's response. Norway might indulge him, if he felt so inclined, and tonight he does. With a soft noise, he encourages Denmark to go on. Denmark's hands wander down, down to his hips to rest as he brings his lips to Norway's neck again. And again. And again. At least he cannot see how Norway flushes deeper with each, seated as they are. For that, Norway is grateful.

 

Denmark cannot see it, but there is little Norway can do to slow his breathing. He shudders as Denmark's fingers slip beneath his waistband. His own fingers are shorter by some, and cold; it isn't the same, but it will do. He palms himself roughly enough that he can believe it is truly Denmark who is touching him.  
  
  
Eventually the roughness gives way to gentler touches. The hand on him slows and stills. Then it draws away. Denmark wants to try something.  
  
  
"Spread your legs?" His lips are soft on Norway's neck, in the soft space behind his ear where cartilage meets bone. This part is a replay of a time some months ago. He remembers his hand over Denmark's, questioning. How Denmark had guided him, lay him upon his back, and slid his pants off for convenience. A kiss to his stomach, then, presumably to ease his nerves.  
  
  
"Gonna touch ya," Denmark says. He had traced his thumb against the seam of Norway's boxers, along the curve of testes to his perineum and let it rest. "Here." Norway brings two fingers there now. Lightly at first, and soon firmer. Clumsy idiot that he is, Denmark had pressed too hard. More soreness than pleasure from that. Norway'd had to correct him, pushing him off the sofa and onto the floor. He imagines Denmark on his knees beside the sofa, lips parted in protest, and how well-positioned he'd been to—  
  
  
No. He cuts the thought short. That one he will store away for another time. In his mind's eye, Denmark is on the sofa once more. He is careful now, the pressure he applies just firm enough. Norway thinks of rewarding him with a moan but decides it's in Denmark's best interests to not become spoiled.  
  
  
It feels good and if he had brought anything to ease his way —to allow him to continue from within— he would imagine Denmark's fingers inside him. Curling slowly, stroking circles until the stimulation there alone brought him over. He hasn't brought any and he can't. He imagines Denmark stretching out beside him instead. He holds one of the hotel's long pillows to his chest, a crude simulation of Denmark’s mass flush against him; in his mind’s eye Denmark kisses him and smiles.  
  
  
“There," he says. "Ain’t that better?"

 

It isn't. Were this not a fantasy, he would not have obliged. Face-to-face with Denmark, he would have no means to hide the evidence of his pleasure. The redness creeping up his cheeks would have given him away. But this Denmark of his fabrication cannot tell. Norway envisions his large hands fumbling to work his clothing open so that he can touch himself. They would slip on the button of his pants, too large to hold it fast. And he would not have the patience to undress himself fully, that would take far too long. Norway imagines how he would look, body exposed from knee to belly only. His mouth would go dry at the sight, smooth muscle and soft flesh and— and Denmark's cock resting full and flushed against his gut. He pretends Denmark takes no notice of that as well.  
  
  
“Got off this morning,” Denmark would say. “Thinkin’ about ya.” Norway would take pause to consider his interest. Lying in a bed in Zurich that seems far too large, he doesn’t need to. He remembers the feel of Denmark’s face in his hands from the last time they were like this: the shape of his jaw, the texture of his skin. The soft hollowing of his cheeks as he took him in. Denmark would press Norway’s fingers to his lips in an offer far too tempting to pass up.  
  
  
“Tell me,” he would instruct Denmark. Denmark would smile again —that damned idiotic smile— and close his eyes.  
  
  
“Were fuckin' m'mouth. Remember how ya did it last time? Just woken up, you an’ me. Was gonna get up an’ make coffee, but—” But Norway had stopped him with a hand against his chest. Pushed him slowly back against the mattress. He had straddled his waist, the better to feel Denmark's thighs at his back. Were he with Denmark now, he would remain lying by his side to watch instead. Denmark is...not hard on the eyes, with strong features and heavy eyelids. Arousal very nearly becomes him.  
  
  
Denmark swears, tracing a finger along the edge of his foreskin. “But y’got m’mouth open. You were…touchin’.” He glances at Norway. Norway indulges him once more, bringing his lips to Denmark’s throat. He’d kissed him until he’d felt Denmark’s jaw go slack and he imagines kissing him now. Denmark would moan, teasing at his foreskin. Norway slides his own neglected arousal against the pillow, willing himself to believe it is Denmark’s thigh.  
  
  
“Then what.”  
  
  
“Then —fuck— used m’fingers. Tried doin’ it rough like ya did, but it wasn’t th’same. Wasn’t _enough_.” There's no way it would have been. Norway had put that big mouth of his to good use, tilting Denmark’s head back and pushing in as far as Denmark’s throat would take him. He wraps his fingers about himself and thinks of Denmark’s easy acquiescence. How readily his lips had parted for him. How he had moaned around him, louder and more insistent with each thrust. He thinks of Denmark's hands again, how their hold on him had grown weaker and weaker. He’d been close then, Norway had gathered, and come soon after without being touched.

 

Lying with him on the couch, Denmark falls silent, thumbing the head of his cock. Norway had drawn out afterwards to finish. Perhaps that is what Denmark is remembering that causes his breath to catch so: the few short strokes before Norway at last came, too, across his lips and cheek. He imagines Denmark lying boneless beneath him with slick, bruised lips, bringing his fingers to the mess on his face and— and laughing. Norway feels himself beginning to tighten and slows his movements. He is not yet ready to let the fantasy come to an end.  
  
  
Denmark would take hold of him. Norway grips himself in imitation. Relief courses through him from the contact and he must bite his lip so that he does not moan. He has indulged Denmark more than enough tonight; he does not intend to do it again. And Denmark would easily make more than enough noise for the both of them. Norway envisions Denmark keening into the flesh of his shoulder. He would feel the muscles of Denmark’s face tensing as his eyes clench shut. Feel the warm whisper of breath against his skin as Denmark curses again, growing close a second time in Norway’s mind. Norway is growing closer as well, too close to resist any longer. He pushes hard into Denmark’s hand and comes. In his imagination, his nails rake thick red lines down Denmark's back. Denmark would not hold out long after that. He would arch suddenly into his own fist, gasping Norway's name.  
  
  
Denmark would want to touch him in the afterglow, he suspects. Run his fingers through Norway’s hair, perhaps, or cup his face. With his hands covered in their come, it would have been out of the question. Norway imagines that they are clean and dry and that Denmark doesn’t open his mouth to ruin it. In the silence of the hotel room, he can very nearly believe it. Norway considers showering to further the illusion. He would want to, after, to wash the mess off his stomach. Denmark would have to wait his turn in the sleeping area; allowing him in would present him another opportunity to see Norway weakened by desire. Norway does not know if his resolve can withstand Denmark kneeling before him and the warmth of the water streaming over his shoulders and down his back.  
  
  
And he has not forgotten the truth— that this has been an illusion, nothing more. The bed will still be empty when he opens his eyes. His body, beginning to remember its fatigue, will ache all over for want of rest. The hotel will still be too cold. Too quiet. He supposes could call someone, have the silence filled with idle chatter. Iceland perhaps, if he isn't sleeping. Or Finland, who is always content to talk to one content to listen. Not Denmark. Never Denmark. It would be far too dangerous a concession to make. If the stillness truly becomes too much to bear, he can just as easily take his work to the downstairs lounge to keep it at bay.  
  
  
Later, though. He needn't act just yet. There is some time before his mind clears. Before his body settles and he must let go of the fantasy. He curls around the pillow, not broad enough or solid enough in his arms for him to fool himself and imagines that it is enough for now.


End file.
